The House Of Smoke by Sam Christer Page A

a door. ‘And lo and behold, here we are, the elusive drawing room.’
    ‘Thank you.’
    ‘Entirely my pleasure.’ She knocked on a panel for me, smiled again and departed.
    ‘Come in!’ shouted Lady Elizabeth.
    I felt a rush of excitement as I turned the knob and entered a room ablaze with sunlight. She looked up from the writing desk. An elegant black fountain pen paused above a buff-coloured document. ‘Simeon?’ She glanced at a gold clock ticking loudly on the mantelpiece. ‘You are a full five minutes early.’
    ‘Would you prefer I went away for a while?’
    ‘No, certainly not.’ She rose and shook out the ruffles of a gold and red day dress, then glided to the table where we normally sat. ‘It is good that you are eager to begin.’
    ‘What do you know about China and the Chinese?’ I asked as I held a chair for her.
    ‘The
Chinese
? My goodness. Let me see.’ She sat and smoothed the dress over her legs. ‘They are one of the most populous nations in the world and are a wonderful race of people. Quite brilliant. They invented gunpowder, paper money, silk, the abacus – all manner of things. Why do you ask?’
    ‘I overheard Surrey and Sirius speaking about them.’
    ‘Ah.’ Her tone became subdued.
    ‘Sirius said there were a couple of hundred or so in London but I never saw any when I lived there. Where are they all?’
    ‘There are communities in Pennyfields and Ming Street in Poplar.’ She glanced at the clock. ‘Time for us to move on to other matters.’
    ‘Who are the Chans?’
    ‘
Please
, Simeon. We need to begin our work.’
    ‘The Chans?’ I persisted.
    ‘Very well. They are old business acquaintances of the professor and his family.’
    ‘And there is a dispute, some bad blood between them?’
    She reached for a pile of books on the table. ‘I have said enough. More than enough on this matter.’ She opened a book. ‘I want to talk today about art and artists. What kind of art do you like?’
    ‘I like shades,’ I answered enthusiastically. ‘I like them very much.’
    ‘By
shades y
ou mean black and white portraits, silhouette art?’
    ‘Yes.’ I was pleased to have a subject I could talk about without feeling stupid. ‘I have some.’
    ‘You have some?’ She seemed surprised.
    I dug into my pocket and handed over two printed portraits, both small enough to fit in the palm of her hand.
    Elizabeth studied them like diamonds. ‘They are exquisite. Simple, but enchanting shades of a mother and child.’ She passed them back to me. ‘How did you come by them?’
    ‘I didn’t steal them, if that’s what you mean.’ I returned them to a fold of leather I kept in my pocket. ‘Someone special gave them to me. Please do not ask me more than that.’
    ‘As you wish. Do you know where the word
silhouette
comes from? How this type of art materialised?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘In France, there used to be a very austere finance minister called Etienne de Silhouette. He was known for making severe cuts to the country’s budget during an age of frugality. At the same time, there was a demand for portraiture, which was usually done in oil or by photography. For those who couldn’t afford such luxuries, portraits were made by sketching a facial outline on black card, cutting it out and sticking it onto white card. Because this had been done so cheaply, so
meanly
, it became known as a silhouette.’
    ‘I like that story. Like it very much.’
    ‘Yet you sound sad. Have I upset you, somehow?’
    ‘Showing you the shades awoke some old memories, that’s all. And mixed with how you make me—’ I stopped before I said anything embarrassing.
    ‘Make you what?’
    My tongue was stilled.
    ‘Tell me.’
    ‘Feel.’
    She laughed. ‘And how
exactly
do I make you feel?’
    Now I was lost.
    My foolishness had led me to a precipice that I was too inexperienced and afraid to cross.
    ‘
Simeon?
’ she pressed, saying my name in the softest of tones, ‘I asked you how I made you